


Faith

by BlackMajjicDuchess



Series: Namesake [20]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Death, Dragonflies, Gen, Honor, Horror, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Loss of Innocence, Spiritual, faith - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:18:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3634635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackMajjicDuchess/pseuds/BlackMajjicDuchess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I got the idea in my head one day to bring some of the Naruto characters face-to-face with the thing they were named after for the first time. I thought it might be fun. Also accepting challenges!</p><p>Stories will be posted separately but as part of the Namesake series.</p><p>Part 20: Faith</p><p>It is said that dragonflies are the souls of the dead. Shino believes this, as all Aburame do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faith

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CountessMillarca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountessMillarca/gifts).



> To issue a challenge, just comment on one of the stories in the series with the name you'd like to see done. The only stipulation is that it HAS to be a name that has a meaning, and it has to be a meaning that is something one can encounter. Example: Madara means "spots." What the heck am I supposed to do with that? On the other hand, Naruto's name refers to some kind of fish cake, which is something he could confront somehow.
> 
> Shino Aburame challenge from CountessMillarca
> 
> Shino = Of faith  
> Aburame = Oil Woman

* * *

The Aburame boys studied from the obscurity of the trees. It was the kind of day that appeared as summer yet promised the opposite. The sun was high and bright, _too bright._  Shino pushed his shaded glasses further up his nose. Despite that, the wind had the kind of arctic bite that heralded a gruelling winter. Not that Shino minded the changing of seasons… only that he _noticed_. 

He observed silently as his peers—loud and overwhelming, _too much_ in every way—leapt like rabbits across the expansive field, eyes to the sky. Their hands splayed open like fleshy butterflies, swatting, faces broken with wide, manic grins. Alert, too-large eyes, exposed to the rays. Beside him, Torune was equally silent, equally confused. “No one seems to appreciate observation as we do,” his almost-brother opined. They were young… his opinion was just another casual analysis, but it was accidentally far too accurate.

Shino agreed, though he said nothing, his chin tilting downward in thought. Torune was right. Out there, a species of winged insect he’d never seen before was on the move. The papery hum of their wings cutting the air would have been like music to his ears, except that the others had destroyed the serenity with their laughing, their clapping, and their screeching. He would have much preferred to watch the way the creatures traversed the sky. Where would they go? What would they do? What were they?

It was almost too much when one of the older generation appeared on the scene with an ingenious way to capture them. For a few tense minutes, the field was silent except for his whispering. All of the children—save Torune and Shino—gathered around the boy as he explained. When they broke apart and dispersed as before, they were armed with a trap that was almost too fine to see. Hair, tied to a pebble*. Shino’s heart thudded, empathizing with the frail yet majestic creatures, as a young girl threw her miniature bolas into the sky. Shino registered Torune’s muted gasp of surprise as one of the airborne insects dove toward the pebble, then crumpled out of the sky, tangled in hair. 

“How barbaric,” Torune breathed as Shino’s own heart broke. Shino agreed with Torune yet again. But what were they to do? Start a war with their peers over the proper treatment of the universe’s smallest creatures? Shino already knew how that conversation would go: _They’re just bugs, weirdo._

_Weirdo…_

_…Weirdo…_

_……Weirdo._

Despite being unable to do anything, though, the two of them remained, horrified as wings were pulled off, ripped apart. They tried and failed to ignore the quiet _crunch_ of shattered exoskeleton. Most of the ensnared things were simply left upon the earth where they fell, frantically beating against restraint to return to the skies. Shino and Torune silently recorded the scene to memory. Human children were the cruelest creatures. Mankind was nature’s most destructive force. It was as if the two of them _knew_ they needed to be here. To bear witness, if nothing else. The wind berated their jackets yet never reached their skin. Their eyes remained protected from the glare of the over-cheerful sun. They were the only two to deny the star's insistence. Meanwhile, the heathen children who disturbed the natural peace of nature burnt themselves out, eventually coming up with a more entertaining activity—more exciting than large-scale slaughter, than genocide--and leaving the area. 

 _They never stood a chance,_ he realized. Though he couldn’t know it at the time, his rudimentary entomology was the foundation for what would be his shinobi moral code: _the strong protect the weak._ Shino knew not to cry, but he _needed_ to _see_. He crept out of the shade and onto the playground as it slowly transformed into a graveyard. Fragile wings made their last desperate flaps, beating at the air like a dying dream. Shino knelt, seeing the creatures for the first time up close. He cupped his hands beneath one, plucked it from the earth. Iridescent compound eyes stared at nothing. The fractal wings quivered. From fear? From pain? From the throes of death? “Release them,” he whispered to Torune. He heard the boy move away from him as he plucked away the hair—blonde, not that that mattered.

They did, moving from tiny body to tiny body, carefully unravelling tensile bonds from the fliers. And then, because he _needed to know_  for the sake of injustice, he scooped up one and held it gingerly in his cupped palms. Torune and Shino went home.

* * *

“Dragonfly,” his father murmured, accepting the little thing from Shino even more gently than Shino himself had carried it. He carefully transferred the insect onto a cushioned tray. It shivered and staggered drunkenly, half dead but _alive_. Aburame Shibi deposited a mash of larvae into the center, then placed a soft, meshy fabric over the lid. “It will be fine, thanks to you boys.”

“What’s a dragonfly?” Torune asked. 

“They are the kings of the sky,” Shino’s father answered, quietly yet reverently, moving the tray to an incubator. The machine would keep the insect at the proper temperature while it recovered. “They can fly thousands of miles. They prey upon nuisance insects like mosquitoes and midges. And,” he added as he shut the incubator door and turned the latch, “it is said that they are the souls of the dead, given flight.” He sat down at his bench and removed his gloves. These, he set upon the bench top before lacing his fingers together. “To the Aburame, they are sacred. I’m proud of you both, for what you did.”

“We didn’t do anything,” Shino admitted wretchedly. “We watched all the other kids yank them out of the sky.”

“And why?” Shibi persisted calmly. _“Why_ did you do nothing?”

Torune glanced at Shino before answering. “The other kids don’t understand. The Aburame clan… creeps them out.”

“Mm-hm,” Shibi affirmed in his quiet yet firm voice. “That is because our people keep to themselves, and insects are so poorly understood. I have faith that you boys will change that. Besides, had you interfered, they might have tortured the dragonflies for longer just to spite you. It is important to know when to attack, yes. But it is also important to know when to retreat. And, when to do nothing.” He glanced toward the window, where the leaves of autumn streaked across the sky. A storm was brewing. “Aburame is one of Konoha’s strongest clans,” he went on. “And yet, most of our enemies forget that. Sometimes, our friends forget that, too.”

“How can we accept that?” Shino wondered aloud. He did not want to be a nothing-doer, nor did he wish to be forgotten for any reason.

“Do you believe that dragonflies are the souls of the dead?” Shibi asked instead.

The question confused Shino, but he answered anyway. “You just said they were,” he replied doubtfully.

“No, I said that some think that. But _do you?”_

Shino thought about how the little thing had looked perched upon his palm. It had seemed serene, but vibrant, sentient, more so than any of the inane, stupid creatures that had knocked it down. “Yes,” he found himself saying.

“Why?” his father inquired. _“Why_ do you think that? And before you answer”—he rushed before Shino could—“really think about it. Scientifically, do you have evidence? Did you watch a soul make the transition from human to dragonfly? Did you see into this creature’s soul? Do you have any proof?”

Torune watched Shino. How he’d become his older foster brother’s leader, he couldn’t be certain, and yet Torune had already deferred to _his_ answer. Shino’s eyes watched the leaves dash the memories of rainbows across the grey sky outside. When the time came, he would be unable to be the nothing-doer. _Never again._ “I don’t have proof,” he admitted quietly, “and yet I do believe this is so.” He mourned them, every one.  _But we saved one._

_One._

Shibi and Torune followed the direction of his gaze as if trying to discern the direction of his thoughts that had led him here. “Ah,” his father murmured. “Yes. I believe it, too. That’s faith, Shino. You don’t see it, but you believe it in your bones. When you’re alone and dying with the enemy’s wounds upon your flesh, it might be your only defense. Faith that your friends will save you, as you will no doubt save them. Faith that, if they don’t, you’ll get to be king of the skies.”

* * *

When the war ended, a festival was declared to honor the lives claimed by the fighting. Lanterns were to be sent down the river. Death candles. Burning souls. In reality, it was only a sentimental gesture, empty, worth less than the paper, wick, and oil. Most of the shinobi would be declared heroes and honored in this way, but there was one who would not. He'd been declared MIA. No one had seen him die, though Shino had seen him dead. Others may have heard about it, but in the confusion that followed, Torune was as forgotten as the Aburame always were.

Shino believed he was out there, somewhere, hovering in the skies. A dragonfly, free on the breeze. He had to believe it... _That's because I'm an Aburame, and he's an Aburame, too._

Regardless... Torune deserved the honor along with the rest of them. When Shino expressed his desire to light a lantern for Torune, his father only nodded and gave him the directions he needed. Feelings weren’t something the Aburame had ever been comfortable discussing. Emotions were private endeavors. Together, their clan was a unified force, anonymous, each just as valuable and unique as all the others. Shino himself had never stood out. Neither had Shibi before him. No one had noticed when Torune was suddenly _not there_ anymore. No one had noticed when he’d been killed. 

Shino wanted to change that. 

A ways outside of Konoha was a vendor who sold lamp oil for just this purpose. “They call her the Oil Woman,” his father told him quietly. He drew a small map upon a napkin as to where she could be found. “She’s not friendly. Don’t ask any questions. In fact, it’s best if you don’t talk to her beyond asking for the oil. She doesn’t understand shinobi. And she's dangerous.”

Shino was too old to be nervous. He’d survived a war. He’d seen his friends fall in battle. He needn’t fear this Oil Woman. She should fear him instead. 

His nostrils curled with the stink as he waited for her to answer his knock. It was the stench of frying, sickly sweet and greasy, promising a stomach ache and fingers that needed to be washed. The smell intensified with the opening of the door, and there she stood. She was less than a hundred pounds, bent nearly in half with a hunch in her back, a stoop to her shoulders like a hulking vulture. Sharp, dark beady eyes peered at him from above multiple flesh bags, glittering with dim lamp light and secrets. “Hm, don’t you look a tasty one,” she whispered to herself. Her voice was raspy, rough like a smoker’s. Her gaze darted up and down his front before she opened the door to let him enter. 

He ignored her inappropriate comment. “I need—“

“I know what you need, Aburame Shino,” she hastened, weaving her away around towers of possessions to return to a small table in the center of her hut. 

It probably should have worried him that she knew his name, but… after what they’d all endured, she didn’t seem like much. He couldn’t help the way his gaze wandered over her home. Her one-room hut was piled floor to ceiling with seemingly worthless items—empty birdcages, torn plush dolls, dusty, moldering books, wooden crates with liquid stains he couldn’t quite identify that might have been blood. When his eyes settled back upon the small woman, she was grinning, her teeth sharpened to triangular points, her eyes too old and _too damned dark_. 

Shino, armed with the faith of his friends, was unafraid.

And she _noticed_. “You don’t fear me,” she observed. 

“No,” was his sole response. 

She stared at him for a long moment. Tiny, shrewd woman with sharpened fangs at a rickety wooden table. Tall, battleborn shinobi draped in fabric but for his shaded eyes. “Sit, sit, sit!” she urged, waving impatiently at the opposite chair. Her grin was too friendly. 

Shino’s skin prickled with unease, but he did as he was bid. He wasn’t about to leave without the oil for Torune’s lantern. Torune had been the closest thing to a brother Shino had ever had, though by now, perhaps Kiba counted. But just as keenly as he was aware that he loved Kiba, he knew, too, that if his teammate died, he’d have no lantern from the Aburame. Torune was different. There was _no one else_ to light a lantern for Aburame Torune. With trepidation, Shino sat. 

“Eat,” she commanded, swiping one of the fried snacks from her tray.

His eyes followed her movement to the plate, but not away. He stared. He stared and kept staring as the world collapsed inward upon that plate upon that table. His heart contracted as he heard the sickening crunch, and then her dark, black painted fingertips swiped across the plate again. “I’m not hungry,” he heard his voice say.

 _Crunch._ Flash of flesh. A moment of silence, open maw. _Crunch_. Over and over. Shino’s stomach turned as the plate dwindled, little by little. Fried dragonflies**. She was eating _fried dragonflies_ and Shino felt the solid control over his emotions sliding away. His eyes locked onto one, turned upside down, abdomen curled around like half of a broken heart. In his mind, he assigned its identity, convinced himself somehow that _this one must be Torune._ He panicked. “I just need… I need…”

“Rapeseed oil,” she finished around a mouthful of the kings of the sky. 

“…Yes,” he managed, eyes still trained on what he _believed_ to be the soul of his foster brother. Part of him hoped it was as poisoned as Torune, too. 

“Something on your mind, Aburame-san?” she asked in a voice too sweet.  _They’re just bugs, weirdo._

She _knew_. How she knew was a different matter, but she knew exactly what she was doing. She bit down on the next one slowly, the fracturing of chitin as deafening as any paper bomb. Faith was a funny thing--just as strongly as he believed souls became dragonflies, this horrid crone believed she was _eating souls._ Something quiet, dark, and terrible laced his veins. The insects inside his body seethed with the same rage. His father’s voice echoed in his thoughts. _It is important to know when to attack, yes. But it is also important to know when to retreat. And, when to do nothing._

Crunch _._ Flash of flesh. A moment of silence, open maw. 

* * *

He tipped the plate over into the river and watched the dragonflies float away. 

* * *

 They lit the lantern together, and Torune joined the progression of paper heroes.

"Dad, about the Oil Woman..." he began in a low voice.

His infinitesimal pause was the only hint of truth, expression hidden behind dark glasses as he whispered, "What Oil Woman?" 

**Author's Note:**

> *This is a fact I pulled from an article, actually  
> **This is done in Indonesia


End file.
